


Barry's Short For Madonna, Actually

by Waistcoat35, wildenessat221b



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Barry Amber Madonna The Three-Legged Afghanistan Tourist Pomegranate Loving Dog, Cap's Indeterminate Noises, Dog Walker Havers, Dogs, Fluff, Gay Panic, Gay Panic: The Novel, Havers Possesses Saintly Patience, Humour, Legal Disclaimer: Neither of us were intoxicated when this was written, M/M, Modern AU, Slow Burn, Soon To Be A Feature Film, no seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:20:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29051271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waistcoat35/pseuds/Waistcoat35, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b
Summary: 'As he turned back, the dog walker straightened up...Ted had it on good authority that to be that handsome on a Thursday was a punishable offence. Probably.'In which Havers is a dog walker, Cap has an imaginary dog that is then a real dog that has three different names, Great Danes and Little Danes make Medium Danes, and Pat is the best best friend in the entire world.
Relationships: The Captain/Lieutenant Havers (Ghosts TV 2019)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been frantically brainstormed over twenty four hours and we have poured blood (possibly ribena), sweat (because warm laptops make your hands clammy) and tears (of laughter) into this so if you enjoyed it maybe consider leaving a little tidbit of a comment, or kudos <3 If you can guess which parts were written by myself and which parts by my dear friend Abbsy, who kindly agreed to be my talented and brilliant collab partner for this, you get extra points and maybe a hobnob or something.

(Former) Captain Ted Wilson rose at 0900 hours on the dot every day that he had work. Somewhat inconveniently, every day that he didn’t have work he woke up at half past six – a couple of leftover military molecules in the brain, he supposed. As useful as his habit of keeping – well – _habits_ – had been while he was actually in active service, nowadays it seemed to just leave him with nothing to do and a complete inability to get back to sleep. He’d nothing to prepare for work – not to mention that he had Thursdays off anyhow – and he still wasn’t meant to meet Pat until half past nine.

Weak tea and a repeat of The Repair Shop it was, then – he was rather fond of that Jay fellow on it, at least.

Partway through watching the rather fascinating restoration of a grandfather clock, however, he heard a clattering out on his balcony. _Bloody wind must have dislodged one of the plantpots_ , he thought ruefully. He would’ve been entirely correct, were the wind also known as a rather plump white cat with a guilty expression and ginger splotches on its face, surrounded by the remains of one of his marigolds.

_It would appear that the eagle has landed. If we define ‘eagle’ very loosely._

‘ _Mr Smiles_ ,’ he scolded, ‘what on _earth_ do you think you’re playing at, man?’ Mr Smiles, after allowing himself to be picked up, simply gazed at him with doleful yellow eyes and padded his paws against Ted’s chest.

‘Flattery will get you nowhere, sir. Were you really so bored you had to take it upon yourself to vandalise the few measly horticultural specimens I’ve managed to maintain out here, hmm? And what about Katherine? She’s bound to be worried about you.’ Another blank look. ‘She can’t be up at this time – you must have snuck out of the window and climbed up to my balcony.’ Mr Smiles continued to knead his paws against Ted’s shirt. ‘Of course getting back down is beyond your capabilities, isn’t it, that would be far too convenient for you.’ He, finally, received a purr in response, and somehow only then fully grasped that he was on his balcony, making conversation with a feline, at quarter past seven in the morning.

‘Oh, _bugger_ it all. I’m sure I have something for you left over from when you stayed here while your mother was out at that concert with Alison,’ he said as he carried the creature inside. _If only people were this easy to manage_ , he thought as he fished around in the cupboard under the sink before triumphantly retrieving a tin of Whiskas. ‘Salmon in jelly,’ he read aloud with no great amount of relish. ‘I think I shall stick to my lemon biscuits, thank you.’

It seemed that Mr Smiles was inclined to agree, he thought, as he turned around mid-search for a dish he wasn’t planning on eating out of too soon and found the cat perched on the arm of his chair, looking distinctly guilty, with some very likely lemon-flavoured crumbs stuck to his muzzle. One of the three biscuits Ted had placed carefully around his teacup, at precisely 1.25mm intervals on the saucer, was missing – presumed dead.

‘Help yourself,’ he said dryly.

After Mr Smiles was finished wolfing down a second (less stolen) breakfast, Ted spent another hour watching television with the creature in his lap (and smelling somewhat fishy) before deciding it was time to return him to the flat below. Katherine was bound to be awake by now – assuming that checking everything was turned off took four minutes and putting his shoes on took one, and then allowing around twelve for the return of the cat and the subsequent crying, awkward hugs and _thank-yous_ from his owner, that would leave him with twenty-eight minutes to reach the park in good time. It only took seventeen to walk, but one could never be too careful after all.

After checking all the lights and making sure he’d unplugged the toaster three times after forgetting he’d checked the first two times, he laced up his shoes, donned his jacket and retrieved the cat from the armchair, tucking him carefully under one arm while he locked the door. None too soon, it would seem – as he neared Flat 5B, he registered that the sound coming from inside was a mixture of someone crying, turning furniture upside down and calling out the name of a certain cat. He looked down at Mr Smiles. ‘That racket is about you,’ he explained helpfully.

‘ _Mrow_.’

‘You don’t care, do you,’ he muttered, waiting for a slight lull in the commotion before rapping on the door twice – his customary third knock nearly collided with Kitty as she opened the door at a frankly record speed.

‘Oh, Captain! I’m so sorry, but I can’t talk right now, I’ve been looking all over the place,’ she rushed out, mascara doing a rather good Niagra Falls impression. He’d seen pugs running marathons that had been less out of breath. ‘Oh, it’s horrible, I can’t believe I’ve lost- _oh my god you’ve FOUND him!’_

 _Somewhere out there_ , he thought, _there are whales getting headaches from the pitch your voice has just reached_.

‘Yes, that was what I had come to tell you,’ he attempted. ‘Silly fellow must’ve gotten bored or hungry, found an open window and clambered onto my balcony. Couldn’t find his way _down_ again, of course,’ he looked at Mr Smiles accusingly. Mr Smiles stared blankly back, and he wondered not for the first time if the name was ironic.

_As if anything about Kitty was._

Any train of thought was promptly halted on the tracks and evacuated as Kitty threw her arms around his neck. Mr Smiles, presumably used to Kitty’s asphyxiating death-hugs by now, did not bother to protest at being squashed between them. With the arm not holding a cat, he patted her hesitantly on the back. ‘Happy to be of service, Katherine.’

‘Thank you so much! Oh my God, I can’t believe he’s alright- where have you _been_ , you silly boy?’ It took him a brief but alarming second to realise she had switched the recipient of her words to the cat, and handed him over so that her ire would be – a little bit further away from him. Mr Smiles looked back at him, disgruntled, from where he was being cuddled and kissed on the head and very much told off.

‘Well…if that’s all,’ he tried, edging back towards the stairwell. Thankfully she seemed to be too absorbed in Mr Smiles’ return to try and trap him for much longer today, and let him go with another bellowed _‘Thank you, Captain!’_ that he was sure might break the windows and – possibly – down a couple of planes. He checked his watch at the bottom of the stairs – exactly twelve minutes. He was right on time.

His drive to be early was, unfortunately, not _entirely_ out of a drive to be early out of consideration for Pat, as huge a supporter of punctuality as he was. The earlier he arrived, the longer he’d have to observe the dog-walker.

A pastime of some weeks (not months, he told himself firmly), it had begun when he was cutting through the park on his way to work and had seen the man at the edge of the green, knelt on the grass and teaching a labradoodle how to give him a high five. He had chuckled as the creature succeeded, and proceeded to give it an adoring smile as he’d stroked the fur on its head. The two most notable things about the day were as follows:

Item One: It was the first time that Ted had ever been late to the museum.

Item Two: It was, additionally, the first time he had ever been jealous of a labradoodle.

(He tells himself the two are not as connected as they actually are.)

Initially he had assumed it was simply the man’s own dog he was walking – but the next day (in which he had once again cut through the park to work, for completely unrelated reasons) he had been strolling along beside the café with a corgi bumbling beside him, slowed right down to allow the little dog to keep up. On the third it had been a red setter, sprinting in circles around him as he waved its toy teasingly.

The fourth day had been Thursday, so Ted hadn’t had work to cut through the park for, and had already agreed to help Pat set up a barbecue for the Scouts, pretending his slight sulkiness over a missed opportunity had simply been due to a minor headache. (After the incident with Keith, a wooden skewer and Pat’s foot, he’d acquired one anyway, so it wasn’t _entirely_ a lie.)

As he got to the plastic chairs outside the café that was his and Pat’s preferred rendezvous spot, he noticed that his day was about to get infinitely better. The man was there again, at the edge of the green, this time toting a fussy-looking Pomeranian in his arms. He was smoothing the fur behind one of its ears and murmuring something to it, looking fondly amused as if he were letting the little dog in on some great secret for just the two of them. ‘Come on, Iggy, I’m afraid I’m not being paid to _carry_ you, am I…’

Ted was rather sure he was gazing at the man, elbow propped on the cafe table and face leaning against his hand, like a lovestruck fool. The man's hair was combed neatly to the side, a soft shade of dark brown, and - well, he had a wonderful smile. Ted noticed, somewhat dazedly, that he was wearing a rather fetching jumper that matched perfectly with his blue coat. _I wonder if he'd ever smile at me like that..._

'Penny for your thoughts, Ted?'

He came embarrassingly close to forcibly removing himself from the chair at lightning speed - that is to say, falling out of it. ' _Ah_ , Patrick!' He declared at a volume that was probably considerably above the expected level for a regular conversation that wasn't a hostage negotiation, a cheerleading competition or a football chant. 'What brings you here on this fine - bally _fine_ morning?'

'Erm...the fact that we meet up here _every_ Thursday?'

'Ah. Yes. Of course. Jolly good.'

'Cap, are you feeling alright?'

'Tip-top, Patrick. Fit as a fiddle.'

Pat squinted at him. And then, alarmingly, squinted at the man with the pomeranian. ' _Ah_ , so _that's_ it.'

'What?' Ted flailed. 'I haven't the doggiest - _foggiest_ \- idea what you're talking about.' 

'...talk about a Freudian slip, Ted.'

'Don't bring _him_ into this, we are having an uncomfortable enough conversation as it is.'

'Ted,' Pat sighed, 'I'm not a complete wazzock. Every time we've come here for the last three weeks I've noticed you looking at him. It's like he hung the bloody moon or something.'

' _Honestly_ , Patrick, this is most inappropriate-'

'No, it's true. You're arse over tea kettle for him, Ted.' 

' _Patrick_ '.

'Talk to him.'

Ted scowled. 'Don't want to.'

'Why _not_?'

'I haven't got anything to _say_.'

'Ask him for coffee, or something! It's not that complicated!' 

'I can't just - just- just _go up_ and talk to him for no _reason_.'

'Your reason to talk to him is that you massively fancy him! That _is_ your reason!'

 _Yes_ , he thought, somewhat bitterly, _but what would his reason be to talk to me? He isn't getting anything out of it, is he._

Pat had evidently seen the growing expression of nervousness and taken pity on him. ‘Just go over there, and _talk_ to him, mate. He won’t bite, look at him.’

Ted placed his hands on Pat’s shoulders and swivelled him around so that his back was facing the dog walker. Then, he peered over Pat’s shoulder.

‘Eyes on target,’ he mumbled. Pat rolled his eyes.

‘Butter wouldn’t melt, right?’

The dog walker, at that moment, was crouched down with both hands immersed in the comically voluptuous fur of a Pomeranian. His lips were settled into a contented smile, matched by that of the ridiculous little creature, who despite not having the physical characteristics to make it possible was _definitely_ grinning.

‘No, butter wouldn’t,’ Ted mumbled. He could, however, think of a few things that would.

‘See, there you go, go on, what’s the worst that could happen?’

_sink hole, meteor strike, spontaneous combustion, earthquake, lightning storm, forest fire, mauled to death by a glorified sofa-cushion –_

‘Nothing.’

‘Precisely.’ Pat gave an irritatingly encouraging smile, and Ted bit his tongue against a snapping remark about how he wasn’t one of Pat’s eight year old charges. He had to admit that at that moment, he felt a little like one.

‘Right…’He smoothed out his jumper and cleared his throat. Pat gave him a double thumbs up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Right. Off I uh…’

Lifting his chin, he set off in the direction of the dog walker. What began as a noble military drumroll in his mind morphed rather quickly into the Dad’s Army theme. He winced. Glancing back over his shoulder, he clocked Pat pretending to be enthralled by a pigeon pecking at a discarded Mars bar. As he turned back, the dog walker straightened up.

And good lord.

_Good Lord._

_Good bally spanking all that is holy buggering bloody Lord._

Ted had it on good authority that to be that handsome on a Thursday was a punishable offence. Probably.

‘Nyahh…’ Ted said, eloquently.

_Gentlemen, it appears we have a problem. Communications seem to be down._

The dog walker smiled the baffled smile of someone who’s already in the ‘benefit of the doubt’ phase of a character evaluation. Hardly ideal. ‘Hello… can I help you?’

‘Nyah… hyah… herm… hum…’ Ted shook his head. ‘No. Yes. Yes, please uh…’

The dog walker waited a beat. Then another, squinting at Ted. Then, tentatively, ‘What… what can I –‘

‘DOG.’

The Pomeranian made a confused noise. Ted was inclined to agree. He shook his head, then continued, ‘I… I have a dog.’

_RETREAT MEN. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, RETREAT._

‘Oh…’

‘And a job… jog and dob. No, dog and job. Both… most fulfilling, ah –‘

‘Well that’s –‘

‘You…’ _We weren’t briefed about this in training, ‘_ You walk dogs… for people with dogs… and jobs… like me…’

The dog walker chuckled softly. ‘Yes, yes I do.’

‘My dog. That I own. Barry. Barry? Barry. Ah… lovely… silly little thing. Big thing. Big. Little. Big and little, both. Great Dane crossed… Little Dane, ah… medium sized, I suppose, when all’s said and done -‘

‘Right…’

‘Medium sized and uh… three legs, only three legs, _‘ Gentlemen, this is a malfunction of astronomical proportions, ‘_ Lost one in… Afghanistan. Not the war, just tourism, big fan of pomegranates you see –‘

The dog walker held up a hand.

‘Would you like to take my card?’ he asked, digging in his pocket with an amused smile on his face. ‘Then you can get into contact about your dog. Barry.’

_RETREAT._

_Oh, for the love of –_

‘Yes. Yes please, that’d be uh… most… acceptable.’

The dog walker smiled.

‘There you go, then.’

There was the briefest brushing of fingers as the card was exchanged, transforming Ted’s attempt at “thank you,” into a jumble of syllables that in a cruel twist of fate, didn’t sound unlike “marry me.” The dog walker’s forehead creased, but it wasn’t quite a frown.

Ted turned and hot footed it back to Pat before anything else could happen.

The dog walker watched him go.

‘So,’ Pat said, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a grin on his face, ‘How’d it go?’

Ted swallowed.

‘I need to borrow your dog.’


	2. Chapter 2

Ted frowned. The animate hearth rug that was standing to attention beside Pat's left thigh frowned back. Pat had both hands covering his face, but presumably he was frowning too. 

'Hmm.' He took half a step backwards. 'It's a... dog, alright.'

'Shocker,' Pat muttered from behind his hands.

'Hmm.' Ted crouched down in front of the dog and peered into its marbled brown eyes, knees clicking like springtime crickets. It peered back. Tentatively, Ted raised a hand with the intention of stroking it on its head, but made a hasty retreat when it turned its nose towards the gesture inquisitively. He shuffled backwards a couple of feet. 

'Natural, mate.' Pat's hands had migrated to his hips, and he was looking down at Ted as he might a ten year old who should _definitely_ know how to tie his shoelaces by now. 'Go on, try again. She just wants to say hello.' 

Ted swallowed a mouthful of thick saliva and raised his hand again. Let it drop.

'Hello...' he settled for, faintly. He leaned to the side slightly and ran his gaze up and down the expanse of the dog's body. 'Quite big, isn't she?' He twitched involuntarily. 

'Old English sheepdogs tend to be, Ted.' Pat pulled a fuzzy-edged FIFA sticker album out from under a brown faux-leather sofa cushion as he sank like a sack of notably displeased potatoes. 

'Old English...' Ted muttered, frowning. 'Not a Medium Dane, then?' 

'A what?' 

'I told him she was a Medium Dane. Or implied it. Great Dane crossed Little Dane.' 

He straightened up, then settled stiffly into an armchair, which he considered to be a safe distance from the expansive _beast_ that was currently standing gormlessly with a hung head like an octogenarian queuing at the bank. 

She trotted over to Pat and pushed her nose against his left knee. Ted's rod-straight back somehow straightened further. Pat folded his fingers through her fur. 'There's no such thing as a -' He looked down at her, and chose his battle, 'No, she's not a Medium Dane.' 

'Blast.' Ted blinked, then sucked in a breath. 'She... _SHE..._ Bally... _NYAH.'_

Pat closed his eyes sufferingly. 'Did you tell him your dog was a boy?' He asked flatly. 

'Not exactly.' 

'Then what's -' 

'Her name's Barry.' He flicked his head to the side. 'But these days... Could be short for... Amber?' 

Pat shook his head with pursed lips. 'No mate. It really couldn't.' 

'Pat's short for Patrick.' 

'Ted's short for Edmond. Barry's not short for Amber.' 

'No...' A beat passed. The dog stretched, yawned, and curled up at Pat's feet. Ted's eyes lit up. 'Short for... BARRY ISLAND!' He clicked his fingers triumphantly above his head. 'That's it! "Hello, handsome dog walker. This is my dog, Barry, short for Barry Island, had a remarkable holiday there once, charming place, overcome with affection for the... The..."'

'The rusty slot machines, the cigarette-strewn beach, the bingo hall?' Pat tilted his head to the side with painfully squinted eyes. 'You don't strike me as a Barry Island man, pal.' 

'Hnngh.' Ted wrinkled his nose. 'How do you know so much about it?' 

'My sister wanted to do the Gavin and Stacey tour.' 

'Ah,' said Ted, trying dutifully to remember which 80s synth hit Gavin and Stacey were responsible for. He drew a blank, then shook his head. 'It could just be... Quirky. Can I pull off quirky?' 

'You have very little choice, mate.' 

'Hmm.' 

'And that's being kind.' 

'Hmm.' 

'...Barry, short for Barry Island?"'

'Hmm.' 

'Hmm?' 

'Point taken.' 

‘I don’t think he’d be keen on quirky, anyway. Seems quite down-to-earth, like.’

‘I suppose,’ Ted frowned. ‘He didn’t seem to mind walking _Heather’s_ dog, though – Iggy.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘It’s short for _Enrique Iglesias_ , Pat. I don’t think quirky’s going to scare him off.’

‘Yeah,’ Pat took a swig of his likely now cold tea as if trying to drown his sorrows in it, ‘but I don’t think she actually _told_ him that bit. Not if he’s still walking the poor thing and didn’t hand back the money and move cities. Actually – why’s it even _called_ that?’

Ted shrugged. ‘Think she thought it was funny at the time – the chap sang a song in that film. The one about the chihuahuas. Maybe she thought it matched well.’

Pat squinted at him – Ted was beginning to grow rather tired of that look. ‘Iggy’s a _Pomeranian_.’

‘Well. Her eyesight’s not _quite_ what it used to be, last I heard.’

‘Hang on. You thought Jimi Hendrix was the name of a brand of soap powder but you know that Enrique Inglesias had a song in _Beverly Hills Chihuahua?_ ’

‘…Katherine made me watch it with her last year.’

‘Ah. Was that on her birthday? When her sister didn’t show up?’

‘Well – yes, it may have been. Least I could do.’

‘Your neighbour’s sister ditched her for her birthday, so _the least you could do_ was buy her a Costco cake with a picture of her cat on it and watch pre-2010s Disney films with her until one in the morning while she cried into her Pinot?’

‘I’m sure I didn’t go _that_ far-’

‘I have it on good authority that you did.’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘Whose authority would that be, exactly?’

‘Mine, because I had to help you figure out how to get the cat picture from what you called ‘ _Instant Bran_ -’

‘I _know_ it’s called Instagram _now_ , thank you Patrick-’

‘And also Mike’s, because he told me about how he drove you to Costco and Alison told me about how he spent fifteen quid on another cake for himself.’

‘A man’s got to indulge now and then, hasn’t he?’

‘They serve _forty-eight people_ , Ted.’

‘Sharing’s caring.’

‘There was none _left_ when Alison got home.’

‘Well. I might’ve helped him a bit.’

‘Might you have.’

He shrugged, looking at the dog as though it might come to his defence in the conversation. In a ditch attempt to garner such support, he tentatively moved to kneel beside her. Gingerly, he ran his hand across her back. She didn’t recoil and neither did he. _Small battles, big war Edmond, small battles big war._ ‘In my defence, I don’t get to try them very often! It’s him who’s got the warehouse membership.’

‘God’s sake,’ Pat muttered into his tea. ‘Well, in any case, I have evidence you are actually a _massive_ softie, so there.’

Ted sulked. ‘I’ll have you know I’m tough as old boots.’ He attempted to retreat from his place near the dog’s feet to the sofa, and his knees made a sound like an alligator biting down on a packet of snaps. (A point of comparison he could in fact testify to – he’d taken Daley to the zoo once when he’d been babysitting as a favour, and discovered that there were many things that children would toss over enclosure railings, and many animals that would eat those things.)

‘Patrick.’

‘Yes?’

‘…Might I have some help removing myself from the floor.’

‘You may. And you can accept that help knowing it’s only my status as your best mate stopping me from making a LifeAlert joke.’

Ted looked mournfully to the dog. ‘Does he bully you like this? He bullies me.’ Once hauled up and onto the sofa, he startled at a sudden weight on his shoe – the dog had shifted her head and plunked it down on his foot with a great heave of a sigh. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t know how you live with him.’

Pat nudged him reproachfully. ‘Oi. Still got that joke if you don’t stop it.’

‘Your dog just _sighed_ at me. I think she’s depressed. Probably all the power ballads she has to listen to.’

_‘_ What’s that you’re saying, Ted? All I can hear is ‘ _Pat, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!’_ ’

‘Bastard.’

‘You love it really.’ Pat gestured to television. ‘Fancy some telly? I think there’s another Susan Calman repeat on at the minute. She goes to Yorkshire, and all. If you’ve got nowhere to be, that is.’

‘Even if I had,’ Ted said dryly, ‘I don’t think your friend here would release me. But go on, then. I’ll stay.’

As the titles began, he noticed he had, at some point, begun jigging his leg up and down slightly. The dog huffed crossly for the motion to stop. ‘My apologies, miss,’ he murmured, and, hoping Pat was preoccupied by the television segment about Whitby, reached an only slightly shaky hand down and lightly smoothed the top of her head to win her back. The dog tilted her head up, and he felt a somewhat soggy canine tongue against his palm. Despite the stickiness, he felt a little fonder of the beast than before, and the motion meant he had something to do with his hands rather than wring them together nervously. He’d only had one encounter with the man in the park and he likely already thought Ted a lunatic – possibly more so when he met Barry Island, who was most assuredly _not_ a Medium Dane.

‘Hey.’

He turned to look at Pat. ‘Yes?’

‘Look – this is an absolute bloody mess, but – I think he liked you. Or he will. I’m not saying he _won’t_ think you’re a bit of a weirdo with this whole dog business, and I still think you should’ve asked him to go to Costa with you like a regular human being, but I don’t think he’s about to, like – take one glance at you and run for the hills, you know? You seem to think that’s an option, and I can’t say I think you’re giving yourself enough credit mate.’

Ted opened his mouth to protest, and gave up, because there was the _shepherd of a flock of somewhat neurotic prepubescent scouts_ look once again, and there really wasn’t much arguing with it even as a forty-five year old. ‘That all – _very_ much remains to be seen. But for what it’s worth – thank you, Patrick.’

Pat gave him a thumbs up. ‘No problem, you know I’m your wingman.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Bloody _Top Gun_.’

‘I’m beginning to think you only _pretend_ to be oblivious to pop culture references when I’m the one who makes them.’

Ted shrugged, as “Danger Zone” by Gavin and Stacey began to play.


	3. Chapter 3

If Ted had his way, the world would still be bowing to the modest superiority of the humble telegram.

He had that sort of nostalgia about a lot of things – brown paper envelopes, penny sweets, moustaches that would _definitely_ get some funny looks these days – that long pre-dated his birth. Probably something to do with the black and white war films he gazed at as a child. And his mother’s tendency to never throw anything out unless a fairly advanced insect civilisation had made a home there; even then she’d wait until they had their own parliament building and a Tesco Express. He’d always been surrounded by old things. Musty things. Things with frayed edges. Things that made the grey-haired, grey-faced, grey-outlook-on-lifed man who read the gas metre sigh and go ‘Ah… the good ol’ days.’

But it was more than a fondness for archaic technology that made him wish for a telegram in that precise moment.

He stared down at his Nokia 3310.

(‘You NEED a better phone, mate. I’ve got an old iPhone in a drawer somewhere, I’ll even set it up for you!’

‘Thank you Patrick, I have an iPhone already.’

‘What? Then why don’t you –‘

‘I phone people on it. It’s an I phone.’

‘…Ted?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Was that a _pun_?’)

Its fluorescent screen flashed at him threateningly. He knew a few radiation specialists who would have some rather apt comparisons to make about that particular shade of green. About how once radiation starts to spread, there’s no going back, once it’s out in the air, it’s there forever, you can’t just scoop it up and pop it back where it came from, no going back, no going back, no going –

**Compose Message**

The buttons let out an irritating beep every time he pushed one, not unlike the horrific music that Pat listened to as he waltzed his chip fryer around the kitchen. His thumbs were too big, too stiff, too clunky for such a delicate task.

_Delicate task, really Edmond, you’re writing a text message, not tip-toeing over a limpet mine._

_Aren’t I now? Aren’t I?_

The hand that wasn’t laboriously typing was performing a nervous little dance on his left knee. 

**ic van. 10:00 hours. friday. ted.**

He looked at the message. He blinked at the message. He sighed. He deleted it, key by key.

Oh for the humble _fucking_ telegram.

_(‘Thought you were army, not navy.”_

_‘Well I uh… I’ve spent some time around sailors, you see.’)_

Why did everything have to be so bloody _difficult._ He wanted to meet the dog walker beside the ice cream van at ten o clock on Friday. But something told him he was missing something. Or a lot of somethings. A lot of… unwritten rules of communication, traps to fall into, bullets to dodge.

What was it Katherine had told him once about ghosting?

He groaned and tipped his head back against the back of the sofa.

‘Dearest dog-walker,” he mumbled out loud to his empty living room, “Unless my eyes deceive me – not inconceivable at my age, I grant you – you are the finest physical specimen to walk the Earth since whoever the bally hell Da Vinci was ogling when he sketched the Vitruvian Man. Your hair reminds me of spun silk, you have a voice like treacle and your eyes do something to the pit of my stomach that I can’t pretend to understand but isn’t at all unpleasant. Oh and ah… strong arms, you have very strong arms. When I close my eyes, your face is on my eyelids and the brightness of your smile keeps me awake. Please meet me beside the ice cream van at ten-hundred-hours on Friday, where I shall express this to you immediately and in the most eloquent of terms. Then, we shall ride off into the sunset together on Pat’s frankly unreasonably large dog. Yours most lovingly, Ted.’

He blew out a breath and chuckled darkly.

Then, he picked up the phone again.

**ic van. 10:00 hours. friday. ted.**

He once again consulted the plan, in his head. He would leave his flat at 0900 hours, with the walk to Pat’s taking ten minutes. Once there, he would collect Pat’s dog – or the Hound of the Baskervilles, as he had taken to not-quite-affectionately calling her in his head – accounting for the fact he would require another briefing on necessary dog-related information, and Pat would inevitably keep him talking for some time. Previous cases indicated that Pat tended to talk about anything and everything for, on average, twenty-three minutes. Additional dog-related talk would take an estimated ten extra minutes – making it quarter to ten when he set off for the park, dog in tow. (Or towing _him_ – but he was trying not to think too much about that possibility.)

The seven minutes from Pat’s house to the park would get him there with eight minutes to spare – possibly five, allowing for three minutes added to walking times due to his likely being bad at walking a dog – and thus enough time to amble around (did one amble, with big dogs? Or was that only little dogs? The dog walker seemed to amble with the corgi but not with the setter – if he ambled with a large dog would it be obvious that he _wasn’t a dog afficionado_? He thought the last words to himself with the same fearful emphasis as Mary from the bakery might use while asking if someone ‘ _might be a Satanist?’_ It seemed fitting.)

But – yes. Five minutes to amble – or jog, or walk, or run – around the park with his charge until it was time to regroup with the dog-walker. The dog-walker who did, in fact, have a name, Ted, for God’s sake. It had been on his card. And a very nice name it was too. _Havers. William Havers. William. Havers._ He rolled the words over in his head, wondered how it might feel to let the name tumble from his tongue – or slink, rather than tumble, because it was a rather flowy name. Like a cat stretching or a long skein of geese in the sky, the unbroken pink glaze of the dawn, a drip of caramel – alright, he was getting carried away again.

_William Havers._

_Edmond Wilson._

_William Havers._

_Edmond Wilson._

_William Wilson._

_Edmond Havers._

Wait.

 _Bit soon for that, old chap._ Especially when even saying the man’s name aloud felt – forbidden, somehow. Even though he wasn’t there, it felt too sudden, too forward. Like he might shoot upright in bed, ears burning, and – like something from an Austen novel (he did pay attention in the book club meetings Fanny dragged him to, see) – declare ‘ _A gentleman is speaking of me in the most unsuitable of manners for a bachelor. Using my Christian name when he hasn’t even gained permission to be my suitor!’_

_William Hilson. Edmond Wavers._

Ted scrunched his eyes shut very tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose, before pressing pause on his rewatch of _Dunkirk_ and easing himself up out of the armchair to put some shoes on.

_I need a bally walk._

He pulled the door carefully shut behind him – Fanny could be awfully picky about noise after dusk (no matter what time dusk was at, funnily enough). He checked the halls for Mr Smiles as he descended the stairs, aware the cat was prone to wandering in the evenings too, if Kitty got too invested in whichever period drama was on Film4 and wasn’t watching him. There were no sightings, however, and he got out of the doors unscathed. It was tempting to pull out a cigarette – he only bothered when he was particularly stressed - considering he couldn’t stop anxiously flexing his fingers and flicking them together it was likely one of those times – but he staved it off, and decided on a brisk walk around the building. It was big enough that walking around the boundary might take a few minutes – he could do another lap, if necessary.

The streetlamps were on and it was relatively late, but the sky was still a faded denim rather than deep blue or pitch black. It was a shame about the absence of many stars – _bugger light pollution_ , he thought to himself disdainfully, was there really such a need for the stuff when the things people seemed to be the _best_ at ignoring were bright lights and flashing signs – but at least it was mild, the wind like a dull sort of white noise punctuated by the odd swish of a car passing along the road at the front. When he skirted around to the back of the building he nodded to Claire and Sam, catching the door for them before it could slam shut loudly as they crept up the back stairwell.

After what felt like too little time but was likely a good while based on how much he’d dawdled, he was back at the front again. He was considering another lap – or, maybe, a walk down the main road – when he saw a familiar small fluffy shape trotting towards the building alongside a familiar tall one. The odd part was that they weren’t familiar _together_. He was used to seeing the little black and white papillon _inside_ the building, usually giving him an unimpressed look from between Fanny’s feet whenever she opened the door to him, and certainly not with Havers. ( _William? Havers? William Havers? No. No, Havers is safest.)_

Once the man was close enough to recognise Ted and not just mistake him for some weirdo trying to steal his dog, Ted nodded to him. ‘Ah – I – that is to say – hello again.’

Havers looked surprised – but it was more like the surprise on Kitty’s face when he’d brought her that birthday cake or Pat’s when one of his scouts said something sweet than like anything negative, so it was possible that his bumping into Ted was a _pleasant_ surprise – though the idea seemed somewhat ludicrous, admittedly.

‘Oh, hello again! Quite the surprise. A pleasant one, that is,’ he reassured, soft smile already in place.

_Good lord._

‘Uhh – yes, yes, quite,’ he blustered. ‘Ah – hallo there, Dante.’ He made to give the dog a ruffle of its ears – a continuation into proving his definite status as a dog person – but after recoiling at the upwards jerk of Dante’s head and hovering back and forth, he gave up.

‘So you know this charming little fellow as well, do you?’ Havers bent down for a similar ruffling attempt, and was successful – Dante even craning his head to lap at Havers’ palm with a tiny pink tongue. _Drat_.

‘Yes, yes, that is to say-’ _stop saying that_ ‘-he belongs to my neighbour.’

‘What a coincidence – one way to bump into each other twice in a day, isn’t it?’

‘Quite – she’s on the same floor as me, you see. I’m – assuming you’ve met Fanny, then?’

Havers nodded. ‘Yes, lovely woman. She isn’t in a position to walk him for a couple of days, and I had some free evenings.’

_Do you have lots of free evenings?_

_Could I join you on one of them?_

_Do you like roses?_

_For the love of all that is holy, shut_ up.

‘How kind of you,’ Ted tried. ‘Or – not, obviously, it’s your job, but – no, it is kind as well! I meant-’

‘I know what you meant,’ Havers reassured, tone and expression the picture of patience.

‘Ah – good. Not – not excellent with words, I’m afraid.’ They’d both begun to amble ( _definitely small-dog walking etiquette, then)_ towards the doors, unconsciously matching paces _Stop telling him about everything that’s the matter with you._

‘Are any of us?’

_You are. You’re good with words._

_You’re good with me. To me. Ugh._

‘I – suppose that’s debatable.’ He was beginning to wish he’d had that cigarette.

Havers looked fondly down at Dante as he trotted between them. ‘I always find it funny,’ he said, ‘that people have all these words at our disposal and all we seem to do is bumble about with them. And yet animals can’t speak our language at all, and they manage to tell us just what they mean. Don’t they, darling?’

The five seconds it took Ted to realise that Havers was talking to Dante for the last sentence were the longest, most wonderful and most utterly _terrifying_ in his life. As Havers bent down to fuss the dog once again Ted was reasonably sure he was having palpitations. Though that may have been due to other – factors. _Lord, but the man has an admirable behind._ That thought, though it didn’t help with the palpitations, did give him the strength not to back away when Havers stood up again with Dante in his arms. Having such beady little eyes feasibly close enough for the dog to snap at his face was unsettling at best.

And speaking of dogs – Fanny’s flat was opposite his own. Havers would surely think it frightfully odd that he couldn’t hear any trace of a great shaggy mammoth of a dog in Ted’s flat – especially if he was still there when Ted unlocked his door. Lord – what if he wanted to _meet_ the animal, while he was here?

_Evasive manoeuvres, Edmond._

‘Tell you what,’ Ted blurted out, ‘I can take him, if you like. I’m going up to the same floor, save you all those stairs.’

Havers looked surprised again – hopefully pleasantly. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that’s awfully kind of you. I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble though.’

Ted shook his head. ‘Not at all, not at all. In fact, I needed to speak to Fanny anyway. About – uhm – about – a film. On television. War film. I recommend it.’ _Stop_.

‘Oh, you mean the one on four tonight? I’ve heard it’s good. I don’t catch much of the evening stuff usually – prefer the _All Creatures Great And Small_ repeats, myself. But I daresay I’ll trust your judgement – see if it’s on catch up.’

Ted began to wonder, not for the first time, if this man was in fact some kind of saint. _Of course you watch All Creatures instead of anything made within the last ten years. Of bloody course._ He stoutly ignored the fluttering in his chest at knowing there was someone else who preferred watching the old stuff, when it was on. He also made a mental note to never mention _Dad’s Army_ in his presence, lest he make any unfortunate comparisons. He stoutly ignored the twisting in his stomach when Havers made to hand Dante over.

‘You’ll have to carry him,’ Havers cautioned. ‘He’s not very good at stairs.’ The twinkle in his eyes told Ted he spoke from experience.

‘That’s – right! Of course.’ He held out his arms and tried not to think too hard about how to even hold a small grumpy dog, or what he would do if Dante sank his teeth into his nose or something equally horrendous, or the fact that _Havers’ arms were touching his arms oh God oh God oh God._

Then, there was a fluffy lump of dog in his arms, awkward and slightly disgruntled but contented enough, and Havers was smiling and giving him a nod. ‘Thank you again.’

‘Any time, any time at all.’ _Never. Never again._

‘Well, I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Havers said, turning to the main road. ‘Ice Cream van at ten, right? And if you’re Ted, I suppose I’m William.’

_Dear God._

**

Fanny had apparently sprained her ankle and thought it best to ask Havers to walk him, since most of the others in the building were at work until late and she herself knew that Ted wasn’t a dog person. She’d looked positively baffled when she opened the door to him holding Dante almost at arms’ length, as if the two couldn’t be more out of place if he was a small child holding a bundle of tax returns. ‘Tripped over that dratted feline of Katherine’s the other day, I haven’t been able to get down to the shops since, either. I’ve got an order coming tomorrow but in the meantime I’ve grown jolly tired of tinned soup.’ He had offered her his only available substitute – pot noodles. She’d looked as though she might set the dog on him after all, but was grateful enough when he fetched them for her. ‘What were you doing talking to William, anyway?’ She’d fixed a beady eye on him, rather like an owl about to swoop on something.

He’d stammered a lacklustre excuse about their bonding over similar taste in films.

‘Considering your favourite film is _The Imitation Game_ and his is probably _Lassie_ , I’m not sure quite what films you spoke about.’

‘… _War Horse?_ ’

‘Edmond, if you persuade that poor nice man to watch _War Horse_ I will have your head.’

‘…Goodnight, Fanny.’

He had now taken refuge again in his flat. The television had gone on standby, but he wasn’t really in the mood for the film anymore, anyhow. _Might as well alert Patrick to developments._

**bumped into dog walker. said to call him william. carried dante upstairs. no bite wounds.**

**That’s brilliant, mate! Fancy bumping into him again in the same day. Funny old world!**

**Why did you end up carrying Dante?**

**fanny sprained ankle. william walking him. said id bring him inside so william would not ask to meet my dog at my flat.**

**I did tell you this was a bad idea.**

**yes well.**

**too late now.**

**what should I wear**

**Wear?**

**to take your dog to meet him**

**I mean. I don’t think it matters?**

**really**

**Yeah?? For me it’s usually trackie Bs, trackie T and my white hi-tecs**

**But there isn’t a bloody uniform or something**

**oh**

**thank you**

**Relax a bit, Ted, it’ll be fine.**

**i hope so. goodnight patrick.**


End file.
